reet was unguarded; Morgan rode on and
halted at the edge of the square.

Smoke blotted out everything in the square, except for a little shifting
by the rising wind which revealed the courthouse, the pigeons in wild
flight around the tower. There was not a man in sight, neither raider
nor defender. Across on the other side of the square, as if they
defended that part from being set on fire, the citizens were doing some
shooting with rifles, even shotguns, as Morgan could define by the
sound. The raiders were there, for they were answering with shot and
yell.

Morgan caught the flutter of a dress at the farther corner of the
bank--a little squat brick building this was--where some woman stood and
watched. He rode around, and at the sound of his approach a gun-barrel
was trained on him, and a familiar fair head appeared, cheek laid
against the rifle stock in a most determined and competent way.

"Dora! don't shoot!" Morgan shouted. In a moment he was on the ground
beside her, and Dora Conboy was handing him his own rifle, pride and
relief in her blue eyes.

"I knew you'd come, I told them you'd come!" she said.

"How did you save it--what are you doing here, Dora?" he asked in
amazement.

"I was layin' for Craddock! If he'd 'a' come around that corner--but it
was you!"--with a sigh of relief.

"Have you got any shells, Dora?"

"No, I didn't have time to grab anything but your gun--I run to your
room when they set the hotel afire and drove us out."

"You're the bravest man in town!" he praised her, patting her shoulder
as if she were a very little girl, indeed. "Where are they all?"

"They've locked Riley, and Judge Thayer, and all the men that's got a
fight in 'em up in jail with the sheriff. Pa got away--he's over there
where you hear that shootin'--but he can't hit nothin'!" Dora said, in
hopeless disgust.

Morgan saw with relief that the magazine of his rifle was full, and a
shot in the barrel. He took Dora by the hand, turning away from his
haste to mount as if it came to him as an after-thought to thank her for
this great help.

"There's going to be a fight, Dora," he said. "You'd better get behind
the bank, and keep any of the women and children there that happen
along. You're a brave, good little soul, I'll never forget you for what
you've done for me today. Please take care of this gun--it belongs to
Uncle John."

He was up in the saddle with the last word, and gone, galloping into the
pitchy bl